Page 2 of Bound in Violet Ink
I know who you are and which tower they keep you in.
You risk much by sending your letter to me.
More than you know… I have to admit.
Do not engage with me further.
Closing any distance after this would seal fate.
No name.
NoKane.
But I have to believe it’s from him. It smells like him; I hold it to my nose once more, the scent already fading.
It’s the damn scent that broke me in the first place when he was only a few feet from me all those months ago. His musk stained my lungs like carving permanent ink into my skin. It’s not uncommon for my kind to remember a scent more than the rest. We are not like humans.
But this obsession feels different.
I had never been sopersuadedby the way a man smelled…
Not a man. A high predator. Someone who scares the very soldiers who guard me. One that has been just as vicious as my own adoptive father, if not worse.
Definitely worse.
If Kane appeared at the bottom of my guarded stairwell, I would half believe the men watching my every move would flee, preferring to risk my father’s wrath over that Unseelie High Lord. When Kane struck Lawrence, everyone fledawayfrom my father, rather than defend him in a possible attack. My father had shouted in triumph that there was a reason to now imprison Kane in the Carrows. To which most of the soldiers were hesitant to obey orders.
But again, he didn’t fight.
And I now hold a letter from him in my hand.
Surely, my fascination is simply born out of boredom. He is the leader of a court that’s taking over—a society that grows like weeds under the moonlight, so when one wakes up the following day, the tendrils have already stretched further. No one can recall when the influence had struck so deeply, or how Kane took over with such ease. The only thing we know is that any battle he’s in, he’s always alive. Always covered and dripping with the blood ofothers.
He wears his scars like earned badges of honor.
I place the letter down on the wooden table. What’s wrong with me? Every time my mind wanders with thoughts of him, recalling the strong angles of his scarred face, I’m always faced with some kind of internal praise. I’m like the sheep that continues to compliment the wolves, even down to their blood-stained canines.
I’m utterly hopeless.
Or, perhaps, bored. Unsatisfied. Lost.
Sliding into my slightly wobbling seat, I eye the blank parchment next to Kane’s letter. An old window is my only source of light through the gloomy storm, and some of the candles are dwindling. Replenishing my supplies always seems to be an afterthought to these people.
What would responding hurt?
Surely, Kane was lying. Or manipulating.
It’s what he does.
I can’t even fathom the idea that writing a letter wouldbindus in some kind of fate.
And why would he care?
He’s trying to get to me, to use me to get to my father. Maybe he defended me on purpose, too. To ensnare the bored woman kept in a high tower while enacting his other plans.
I grab the quill and dip it into a pool of violet ink, sliding the metal tip against the glass well to clean the drips. I have few things I enjoy in this life, and using this ink is one of them.
Violet is my most preferred color.
